


Bond(age)

by galacticbasic



Category: Star Wars: Master and Apprentice - Claudia Gray
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Dooku is still on the Jedi Council, Force Bond (Star Wars), Gen, Heavy Angst, Honestly kind of a slow burn, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Not Canon Compliant, Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, Plot Twists, QuiObi without squinting, Rated mature for content to come, Situational Humiliation, Soul Bond, pre-TPM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26474854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galacticbasic/pseuds/galacticbasic
Summary: Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, Master and Padawan, share a bond unlike any other: an unbreakable soul connection, so intense and intimate it draws the attention of the Council--and may even break the Code the Jedi hold sacred. Forced to go their separate ways, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan must navigate the advantages and the pitfalls of such an unbreakable bond, even as the currents of the dark side threaten to tear apart their very lives... and shake their trust in one another.
Relationships: Dooku & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	1. Ruthless

“Master. _Please.”_

“Quiet, apprentice. Be still.”

Obi-Wan flinched at the low voice, attempting to follow its instructions. But kneeling on the bare permacrete of his Master’s chambers, the Force working through his being like a sieve through blood and bone, he could do nothing but tremble and plead. The bond rooted into his core—his and that of Qui-Gon Jinn—trilled like a struck joy-harp string, its vibrations erratic, insurmountable. Its silver string of light began to tarnish, pulling at the very pit of his being, burgeoning and wiry and dark. Outside him. Inside him. Violent.

His Master had driven him to the unconscionable. 

Not only unconscionable; it was against the Council, and so he knew it was wrong—it was not the Jedi way to corrupt any bond, no matter its strength or propriety, willingly or unwillingly. Everything he had ever been taught, and everyone who had ever taught him, discouraged the pursuit of what lay outside the realm of inner mastery, a harmonious calm that leapt from knowledge and self-actualization. Such overwhelming emotions, then, even between Masters and Padawans, were forbidden. 

Oh, here he was, ensnared again in hypocrisy.

 _There is no emotion, only peace._ Obi-Wan Kenobi tried to breathe, to meditate, to escape the moment devouring him with its wide maws and razor-teeth. But the tenets of the Code slipped from him like shock-eels between unpracticed hands, slimy and untamable. 

“It hurts, Master.” And his voice broke very certainly after, a tangle of breaths and stifled exclamations. As the bond blackened, revitalized with dark energy, feeding from his light which it threatened to rend apart like torn flimsi—Obi-Wan could only dig his nails into his palms and endure it. Qui-Gon Jinn would never seek to harm his Padawan, his beloved. It was forbidden.

But this was not Qui-Gon Jinn. 

Obi-Wan’s real Master, his new Master, had in their few short hours together already proven himself ruthless in all aspects, from the tips of his dewback-leather boots to the silver clasp of his shimmersilk cape. Acting as if the responsibility were thrust upon him to prevent this errant Padawan from becoming a disgrace to the Order, he scoffed and sneered and ordered him about. After all, being merely a cast-off of Qui-Gon Jinn, it would take much time and effort to train him right—he should be thankful anybody wanted him anymore at all. By the time his Master had him kneeling, Obi-Wan was already cradling countless bruises to his self-esteem. This—whatever it was, whatever it would become—it could be no different. He bit his tongue. 

And cried out as Dooku ran him through, Force-presence staking him up the middle with an implement as hot as a lightsaber and doubly powerful. And cried yet still as an unknown strength twisted inside him, ripping and stripping out the emotions he held within, laying out the joy, the fear, the hope, the guilt—all of it for this examination, committed with distant, perilous eyes.

He had loved Qui-Gon. That was his crime. 

In this manner, the Dark Jedi would train attachment from him. 

“Master,” Obi-Wan murmured, trying to pretend it was not happening, that some other force had injured him and not this man, not this being—and that his now-Master was doing what he needed to save him. Perhaps he was; perhaps he believed this, against everything, the sole way to reclaim him. Obi-Wan was only still a Padawan, hardly yet a man. Slave to his passions. On the path to the dark side, Dooku had convinced the Council—because of Qui-Gon, his Master, his guiding light. Thus the Council tore them away from one another. Requiring a severance of bond.

Dooku ran a gasping shudder from his chest, the searching Force driving hard against his Padawan, landing him pinned to the wall as if he were no more than an insect. Fighting back would be fruitless, futile even if it weren’t forbidden to turn a hand against one’s own Master. There would be no more pretending; Dooku would purge the illusions from his thoughts, leaving the stark, naked reality in its wake. Obi-Wan bit his lip as the Jedi Master chastised him, physically this time, first his face and then his body, Force-lifting and jolting and holding him tautened against the dry, callused stone. He would be better, he had promised—he promised it even now, he begged it so—to forget his past, to forget everything except his Jedi training, to be a Padawan Dooku could find pride in. 

As if searching him like this he might locate a source of pride. Draw it out only to crush it. How absurd—laughable, even here, even now—the idea that anything remained but immense, unbearable shame. Everything else had evaporated into energy, fuel for the fire.

Everything else had been taken from him.


	2. Persevere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Subdued, Obi-Wan attempts to contact Qui-Gon through the Force.

Dooku vanished. His Padawan slumped in the little angle between the long low couch of the living area and the wall opposite where he had been, far side of the door, so as not to be seen if anyone were to enter. Pitching himself recklessly against the hard side cushion, he buried his face in his elbows, afraid even to breathe, eyes burning. 

_ Qui-Gon. Save me. Please. _

Reaching out into the Force, Obi-Wan envisioned the presence of his former Master, a warm Light concentrated, the brush of skin and the scent of incense, the hum of life and quiet meditation emanating from within. The formless thing wavered and jumped in his imagination, as smooth and decent as if Dooku had never touched it. But the tenuous strand which held him together wrenched his gut with panic when it slipped gently from his grasp, dissipating into the recesses of the Force, replaced with the imposing trunk of that poisoned bond. Heavy, and strangling, and impure.

No one would come for him. 

The Force-presence of Qui-Gon was dissolving from his reach, inexplicably, abandoning him to Dooku, to the charge of a Master who would teach him naught but pain, and despair. It was not becoming of a Jedi—and a Jedi he would be—but the slithering tendrils of fear curled into the place where the light should lie inside him, smothering him in darkness, pouring out his center and breaking the container. Leaving the corruption which had penetrated him so thoroughly it caused his physical form to ache as well as his spirit. 

_ Qui-Gon!  _ he cried, a voice as strong as he could manage with an equal share of weakness withering his grip on the living Force. It always had been his worst ability.

But from this slipping hold came the slight bare whisper of a word, another, against the inside of his mind. 

_ Persevere, little one. _

And then he was gone.

He didn’t understand—he couldn’t—if Qui-Gon knew, if he even suspected—

Obi-Wan calmed himself and tried again. Like blood from a wound, the pronouncement harrowed him. It is forbidden. That was all he would receive from the dwindling light, all it would give him. He pounded against the locked doors of the Force, made a window and tried to smash its glimmering transparisteel. Nothing more came to him. As if something—or someone—was deliberately, methodically shutting him out. 

Qui-Gon, or Dooku?

Obi-Wan took a strong, shuddering breath, hauling himself halfway up against the bed, steeling his resolve for a final, desperate attempt at being heard. His former Master, his rightful Master, would never leave him to suffer. Heedless of the consequences, the Padawan released his shields and felt them clatter down like shattered fragments of fine, clear glass, slicing, cutting even as they exposed him to the Force and all those who used it. Dooku could see him—they could all see him—but the choice had already been made. He crystallized his wounds, his fear, his power into the tiniest of kyber, holding it close. Then he let it fill the hollow, expanding, drowning and burning and reducing him to atoms. Until it encompassed everything, until it became everything, until it reached the unreachable. 

Somewhere inside the Temple, Qui-Gon Jinn fell to his knees and wept.


	3. Attachment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon finds there is more to severing the bond between master and apprentice than he knew. Can Obi-Wan break through to him before it's too late?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I have officially pulled a Padmé and lost the will to live.

Obi-Wan, always filling the most tender parts of his brain. The Council ordered Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn to sever the years-built bond with his beloved apprentice, owing to his unfortunate level of attachment to his Master, as Dooku divined in his mastery of the Force, and Yoda confirmed with an air of disappointment, but no surprise. Obi-Wan would be transferred to Qui-Gon’s own erstwhile Master, and Qui-Gon would be responsible for breaking the bond to make room for a newer, more appropriate Master-Padawan relation with some other, more appropriate student. He must, in order to remain as near to his former apprentice as possible, in physical proximity if not in spirit—and so he would end their lifeline to one another. But to do it would be like cutting off a limb. Or scoring out his heart.

Through the swathes of his tested strength, suggestions of weakness crept across and through. The Holocron of Prophecy tempted him, the vast Temple Archives drawing him in, where Qui-Gon could safely lose himself for a number of hours in study. The blame had been his, for allowing Obi-Wan any attachment, for encouraging and nurturing the deep love he had for his Master, unlike anything else the Jedi had ever witnessed through the Force. Brighter, warmer, more luminous, more beautiful—the bond had grown too intense for either of them to ignore. It swayed each moment, binding their consciousnesses at a level of sync that should only have been achieved in meditation, or combat. Had it gone on, Obi-Wan may have become possessive of his Master, even while Qui-Gon himself was, at least on the surface, detached. 

Instead of allowing the pair to master their joined soul together, the Council chose to split them apart permanently. Perhaps they feared it, as they feared the temptation of the prophecies themselves.

Or perhaps their decision was the best course of action to be taken, under the circumstances. Perhaps a new Master would do Obi-Wan good. And Dooku raised him, after all. Dooku he could trust.

Jocasta Nu hovered over him, serene in the knowledge of Qui-Gon’s predictability, at least where the Archives were concerned. She thought he had sworn off the prophecies some time ago—but without a Padawan to look after, he must have something to concentrate his energies upon. The Master had been confined to a desk for hours already, studying, translating, memorizing, organizing. It was a task Master Jocasta Nu knew well, and often took great pleasure in. She leaned over his shoulder, examining an obscure text in Old Alderaanian. 

“The ‘hour,’ Master Qui-Gon,” she corrected him with a soft click of her tongue. “You’ve translated it as the ‘feather.’”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon mused, his glance at the ancient script overcast with preoccupation. “I wondered what purpose a ‘feather of darkness’ could possibly serve.” The barest hint of a smile sparkled in his eye. “You have my gratitude, Master Nu.”

Jocasta did not smile, but her warmth lit up the Force as Qui-Gon’s false seriousness marked him not too entirely distraught. Some among the Jedi might even call it a sense of humor—dry as the Council, but existent. Although... a mistranslation, for one such as he, was still patently uncharacteristic. The Jedi Archivist chalked it up to distraction from the separation of Master and Padawan, and moved on to other pursuits. 

Qui-Gon tried to ignore the bond he’d already relinquished, so many, unfruitful times. First he attempted to block Obi-Wan out, maneuvering so he could not feel the loss of the Force, at least at first; so the immediate pain would affect Qui-Gon alone. Then he got to hacking. 

The wretched thing grew back faster than he could control. Each time stronger than the last, as if clinging with some unknown desperation, life and death. Cleaving apart the bond proved nigh-impossible anyway; how could Qui-Gon tell where he himself ended and Obi-Wan began? Even without sensing it, the pair shared thoughts, emotions, the will to act. How could the Council ask him to end this? 

This afternoon, possibly at this very moment, Obi-Wan was presenting himself to Dooku, just as Qui-Gon did so many, many years ago. He felt fear as Qui-Gon did. But with the fear came pain—the pain of losing his previous Master, he supposed, but something else as well. Qui-Gon sighed. Becoming accustomed to a new Master would not be easy for the boy. 

The Jedi Master tuned him out, and returned to his studies. 

Briefly. 

Obi-Wan cried. He knew this as sure as breathing. He cried and called out, making their connection, asking his former Master for help. Qui-Gon returned him with a word— _ persevere. _ He would have to. Just as Qui-Gon had his own duty, Obi-Wan had his to follow as well. But the stubborn apprentice refused to let go, tugging harder at their bond, reaching through the Force, bending it to his will. Qui-Gon raised his defenses until all that remained were walls of sleek white. He pulled himself out of the shared meditation, making himself opaque and transparent at once. A shadow. A ghost. Naught but a tremor in the Living Force. Then nothing.

_ Obi-Wan? _

A white shock burst through his temple, an ache so severe it nearly felled him. The disturbance spread like venom through the Force, into the minds of each Jedi in the Temple, a wave of pain or a glimmer of light clashing with darkness, the sound of some inner shrieking animal at its heart. But none were at its epicenter as he was, as close as Obi-Wan must have been in releasing it, a thunderclap of power like the riving shock of a pulse-grenade. With it, images, sounds, moments—distorted, grotesque, indecipherable to everyone. 

Everyone except Qui-Gon. 

That  _ did _ fell him. Dooku, his mouth curved in an unrelenting grin, teeth bared, a vicious sneer—the pleading sound of repeated negative affirmations and the low, sickeningly familiar, commanding tone which stifled them—the bitter taste of skin against skin and skin against wall, the Jedi robes between going threadbare—

Force, no—by everything sacred—what was his Master  _ doing _ to him?

Qui-Gon Jinn flicked away the shocked track of a tear down his cheek, stood, and let a thought to his ragged composure flit by without heed. No semblance of outward equilibrium could be bothered with now. Let his Master see him—let the whole Temple see him with blush rising and fists clenched. He would not stand for any wrong to be done to Obi-Wan, his Padawan or not. 

The Council’s judgment had been irreversibly flawed, at least on one score. But their mortal err held no hope of reconciliation, for they could not understand— 

This was never mere attachment. 


	4. Injured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan has reached Qui-Gon for help, but neither can anticipate the disaster which will ensue as a result.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some days I feel like I'm screaming into the void. Today is one of those days.

The one whispering, slithering, tarnishing echo in the midst of his victory: Dooku had heard him. Obi-Wan would go to the Council. He would have to, in order to explain the outburst which Master Yoda and the others had doubtless witnessed, more clearly than any except Qui-Gon himself. In all their wisdom, they would understand his situation, surely—and if the complaint laid bare his indignity at least it would separate him from the Master who caused such an incivility between them. Gathering himself up, robes and skin soaked with sweat, fresh resolve receding the moisture at the corners of his eyes, he made to stand.

And turned to see Dooku staring him down across the chamber. 

“I will notify the Council,” Obi-Wan spoke first, with as much finality as he dared. “I will be reassigned, and you will be discovered.”

Dooku’s gaze did not flinch. Obi-Wan began to move toward the door, but his Master barred his way with no more than a single step to the side.

“I will take this matter to the Council.” The words slipped out of him, an unnatural calm blanketing his mien. “Let me pass.”

“I am  _ on _ the Council,” the Jedi thundered, the neck-snap of his voice like breaking stone. He swept a hand beneath his cape, finding his belt and the lightsaber attached there to it, stroking its length in his palm. A warning. “You are troubled, Padawan. The Council will understand I acted only to sever the link between yourself and Qui-Gon Jinn. Whatever else you may have imagined as a result of your... distress... Padawan, I have served your best interests. Whatever fault you may try to attribute to me will only prove your dishonesty in this matter.”

He said it so naturally, Obi-Wan had trouble remembering it wasn’t altogether accurate. Regaining himself before this man would be no light task: Dooku showed no hint of losing his temper, his presence commanding and true, though his reluctant apprentice could almost taste the chilled rage roiling beneath his tranquil surface, ready to burn and bite. Already he had tried and failed to put a stop to the shaking in his fingers that would only spread. 

“No. You deliberately—” what was a word that would do it justice— “injured me.” That wasn’t enough. Bravery or recklessness inspired him to press on; it might have been his final chance. “You  _ wanted  _ to do it.”

“Injured you?” Dooku said with an air of lofty skepticism, an air as cold as spilled venom. “Ah, this?” He lifted his hand to Obi-Wan’s blistered cheek, watched him struggle not to wince or lose ground as he swiped a thumb over the place his open fist had struck. “In your disorientation following the attempt at severance, you seem to have stumbled against the furniture. I’m certain you will not be so foolishly clumsy again.”

Obi-Wan could only grind out, “Not that,” and make his spine straighter before the man who isolated him here, like a frightened child trapped in a war zone. 

“What, then?” Dooku continued with a toying air of accusation. “Would you care to show me, Padawan, where these injuries lie?”

The inside of his mouth filled dry with something like cloth, or sand. Obi-Wan’s Master gestured vaguely at his over-cloak, causing him to take one long, sliding step backward until he stood just out of reach. 

“Stay away from me.” 

It hardly was more than a murmur; but still he said it, and met his Master’s eyes, which seemed to burn with unquenchable flame.

Dooku’s lips pursed into a hard line. “Come, apprentice. We shall see what the Council has to say about such defiance.”

Just as Obi-Wan opened his mouth to protest, the door of Dooku’s chambers flung open with such force sparks flew from the sliding durasteel. Haloed in light from the afternoon Coruscant sun, streaming through the Temple’s swathes of gold-tinted transparisteel, Qui-Gon Jinn stepped over the threshold, flushed, panting as if he had run. Obi-Wan could sense his elevated heartbeat, the deep blue calm of his eyes giving way to righteous determination, the latter of which had always suited him better. He expected relief to flood him at the sight. 

Instead he nearly staggered with bright pain.


	5. The Jedi Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan presents himself to the Council. Things go... worse than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day? Force help us.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said, ignoring the presence of his former Master altogether, his face a mask of concern. “Are you unharmed?”

Until that very moment Obi-Wan had not a clue of the horror Dooku had wrought upon him. Each of Qui-Gon’s tender words cut like daggers into his skull, the presence almost blinding him with unfathomable aversion. Thought, speech, movement—all evaded him. It was everything he could do to remain upright.

Dooku responded in his stead, turning so Obi-Wan was half-hidden behind him. “My Padawan has suffered an... unfortunate disturbance within the Force.” His lies were calm as ever, deceit contained, unreachable, inside. “I was in the process of determining whether he required treatment from the Healing Halls.”

Qui-Gon stared past Dooku, his entire focus set on his apprentice. “And do you?”

Obi-Wan squeezed his temples with a hand, blinking back the dull ache, praying it would recede. 

“No,” he hissed, though in truth he did not know the extent of his injuries, or if they were injuries, or if he could be healed at all. Only that nothing was of greater importance than finding out—and getting out. “I was on  _ my _ way to see the Council. If you’ll excuse me.”

With that he pushed past Dooku, and pushed past Qui-Gon, whose brushing hand upon his shoulder stung like nettles through his robes. A jittering breath set against his ribcage, but he could not release it. Striding down the sunlit halls of the Jedi Temple, he wanted nothing more than to return to the man he once called Master, to find safety in his presence, security in the strength of his arms. A bond in the space between them. Instead each step away eased the screaming pulse of his headache, doused the little fires in his cells, strengthened his legs to move with purpose. Still his stomach knotted with distress, with longing for something he knew he may never have again. Dooku had poisoned the bond—and that was worse than breaking it.

The corridor contorted itself into multiple, shifting images, blurring out and merging back together as Obi-Wan rushed down its length to the lift which would take him more-or-less direct to the Council chambers. Exhaustion, he convinced himself, and not anything more sinister than that. Perhaps Master Yoda would be expecting him. It would make everything easier if he were, but—it wouldn’t do to hope too much. Dooku could still make good on his threats, corrupt with his lies—and between the dauntless Master, and his unobliging Padawan, who was the Council more likely to believe? 

But these great Masters were the Jedi Council. They  _ would  _ listen to him. They would divine the truth. 

By the time Obi-Wan reached the height of the High Council Tower, gaining entrance into the large, circular chamber where the Council awaited, Dooku was already seated in his place, conversing in low tones with Mace Windu. Master Yoda sat folded in his little bowl chair, eyes closed, seemingly oblivious to the chatter around him. His eyes popped open when Obi-Wan entered, tugging at his Padawan braid in a small nervous gesture as he bowed and made toward the center of the room. The Coruscant sun was near to setting, endless skyscrapers casting a jagged shadow through the glimmering windows and across the patterned floor. Evening ensconced the ring of Masters in a glow so otherworldly he could almost believe their appearances were the Force made visible in flesh. 

“A disturbance, we have sensed in the Force, Padawan,” Yoda greeted him. “The cause of this you were.”

Mace Windu spoke without giving Obi-Wan a chance to respond. “Master Dooku has informed us of your ultimate refusal to break the Master-Padawan bond with Qui-Gon Jinn.”

_ That’s  _ what he told them? Obi-Wan would be sick. He turned about the chamber, hands folded into the sleeves of his robes in the most deferential manner he could summon. Each Jedi cast their eyes upon him, expectant. 

“I have come before you to lodge a formal complaint against Master Dooku.” Obi-Wan swallowed against a throat made of permacrete. “He has...” 

Perhaps if he collapsed here, if existence became too much to bear and he buckled beneath its weight, someone would take pity and give him a place to stay. As it was, he could no longer speak; he could neither be silent and face returning to his and Dooku’s shared quarters; and he could not run to Qui-Gon. The Halls of Healing might buy him time, but they could do nothing to fix him—to resolve whatever Dooku had done, the healing hand of Vokara Che would require laying again his mind bare, and he would not submit himself to that again, not if there were a chance in a trillion to avoid it. But as close as he stood to breaking down, here on the edge, staring off into the abyss—Obi-Wan could control whether he fell. And the drop was steep, and terrifying, and if he shattered at the bottom he would have no one to blame except himself. 

As close as he stood to breaking down, it would be an embarrassment to allow himself to do it. And it would be false.

Obi-Wan sucked in a deliberate breath, realizing his silence. Qui-Gon ever admonished him about paying more attention to the living Force... and now some dozen representations of the living Force itself were staring him down, and he was paying no attention to them whatsoever. It occurred to him, somewhat dimly, that he might be panicking. 

“Waiting, we are, Padawan Kenobi, to hear your testimony.” Yoda’s scathing tone jolted him from his deliberations, if not completely. “Have anything to say, do you?”

“Yes, Master Yoda.” Another breath. “It is... difficult to say.”

“See that, we can, Padawan,” Yoda shot back, even as Obi-Wan was blinking tears. 

“I cannot—I can no longer be Padawan to Master Dooku,” he choked out. “He has violated the trust of an apprentice in his Master. He has used the Force against me. To... search my thoughts. To... injure... me.” Nothing he could say sounded severe enough without indulging in shameful detail. Still, the murmurs of the Jedi encircling him betrayed some effect. 

Windu turned to Dooku, who lounged next to him, disciplined and stoic as ever. “Are any of these accusations true?”

Dooku stretched his legs out from his chair, crossing his ankles and steepling his fingers as if he were lost in thought. “Not in the slightest. This has been an unfortunate misunderstanding, to say the least. It should have been resolved quietly, without the interference of the Council.”

_ No. No. _ Panic arose in the spaces between his ribs, a biting fear of appearing ridiculous Obi-Wan knew he should have outgrown a decade ago. _ Don’t do this. Don’t play nice. _

But he could sense nothing from the Master except the smooth mien of absolute control.

“What happened, Master Dooku?” Master Windu pressed, an air of irritation in his tone and the narrowness of his eyes.

Dooku smiled just enough to make Obi-Wan cringe. “In his attachment, I fear Padawan Kenobi was... confused. He had asked me for assistance in severing the bond between himself and Master Jinn. He became overwhelmed, and thus, distressed, and in the end refused to allow me to break it. Except for, perhaps, acting out of haste in coming to you directly—the boy is not to blame.”

A few of the Council members had drawn their attention away from Dooku’s explanation to listen to a scuffle taking place outside the Council Chamber. By the time Dooku landed on his final word, the doors were flying open with a great Force-push, and two shaken guards tumbled in. Mace and Yoda glanced sidelong at one another, and Plo Koon lifted both sets of talons to his mask, lowered his head, and sighed. Ki-Adi Mundi raised one white eyebrow. 

Qui-Gon Jinn burst in after the recovering guards. “Quite right, Master,” he said, acknowledging the Council with no more than a nod and a folding of his robes. “Obi-Wan is not to blame. You are.”

Obi-Wan wanted to force himself to meet eyes with his old Master, to believe the sudden throbbing in his head a mere coincidence, to be glad at his appearance and not violated, not filled with dread. He wanted to shift his hands from beneath the respectful gesture of his Jedi robes, to pull comfortingly at his Padawan braid, to remind himself the physical realm existed outside what he could see of the glaring faces, locked upon a man whom he himself could not regard. He wanted to remain standing just as he was, to make his back straight and lift his chin and command his reflexes, to breathe air into the cavity of his searing lungs— 

But he could carry out none of these things. 

Suddenly, too suddenly, Obi-Wan Kenobi was staring out at the high, domed ceiling of the Jedi Council Chamber, the ceiling tinged with blood light as the distant Coruscant sun died over the endless skyline. His throat filled with bile, a hand clasped in his hand like salt in a hundred little flimsi-cuts. 

“Qui-Gon.” The barest hint of presence stifled him, and seeing his former Master only made his eyes sting. 

“I’m here, Padawan,” came the faithful, heartbroken reply. 

Obi-Wan swallowed, consciousness threatening to abandon him wholly. And in the most abject of whispers— 

“Leave.”

As if he had commanded the world itself to listen, his haunting petition came to pass at once. But not only was Qui-Gon absent from his sight. Everything, even the endless vaulted ceiling of the Chamber—everything disappeared. His panic melted into tormented indifference. He wanted nothing, but could not have it. 

Soon he thought no more. 


	6. Offplanet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon Jinn returns to the Archives to seek answers. Meanwhile, Obi-Wan's condition is assessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon x Temple Archives is the real ship here, I think. Why is he always researching? What will he find out? I don't know and neither does Master Qui, so buckle up and strap in for the ride because we're all three going to find out together.

Obi-Wan lay on the floor of the Council Chamber, eyelids fluttering, fingers twitching, and then still. Qui-Gon let go of his hand, the cutting word reverberating off the depths of his brain.  _ Leave. _ Still he hovered over the fallen Padawan, poised to lift him and carry him to the healers himself should he not awaken in the next few moments of his rising concern. Before he could make that perilous decision, Depa Billaba pulled the boy into her lap and comlinked for assistance, swiping a hand over his forehead beaded in sweat. Nearly every Jedi in the circle stood or knelt somewhere on the floor, doing what they could. 

Thoroughly unneeded, Qui-Gon stood to approach his own former Master with a slack-jawed and brow-knit expression of horror, or anger, or something in between. Dooku still sat in his low regal armchair, ankles crossed, cushioned against the seat as if it were his throne. When Qui-Gon spoke, the hissing voice betrayed him in its venom, like a serpent rearing up to strike.

“You have poisoned him against me.”

Dooku shrugged his silver-clasped cape, that imperious mien ever-unaffected. “You have done that yourself.”

Clearly his Master would not admit his crime. Against every instinct to the contrary, Qui-Gon inclined his head, threw his robes straight, and swept out of the chamber. Nothing could be more important, in this moment, than making certain Obi-Wan would recover, and was safe from any further harm that might dare besiege him. But did the danger reside in Dooku—or did it come from him? Either way, he could not see the boy until this matter had been firmly resolved. Qui-Gon found himself lamenting this Jedi who was no longer his Padawan, already suffering because of his Master’s failings; Obi-Wan deserved this pain and humiliation less than any living being the Jedi Master had ever come to know. In part, Qui-Gon had formed the bond with Obi-Wan to spare him such little harms. If its insurmountable strength were not drawn from years shared building it up for their mutual benefit, Qui-Gon thought bitterly, he might not be so incapable of cutting it out.

The training Qui-Gon had received when he himself had been a Padawan came clawing to the surface like some mocking, burbling creature intent on securing his helplessness like a net around him.  _ Release your feelings to the Force, and breathe... Breathe out your fear, and your pain, and your suffering, and become filled with the Light. _

If only he could.

Instead of meditation, instead of breath, instead of release—the Jedi Master merely returned to the Temple Archives. They would contain everything he could possibly want to know about bonding through the Force and through fate—and perhaps, deep within the holocrons and datapads and pages of bound flimsi—some knowledge he would rather not discover. The fear spurred him on, his quest for understanding tempered by the occasional pull against his unbreakable bond, the unfamiliar sensation of Obi-Wan’s nails clawing into the flesh of his arms, a nascent darkness within filling the open space between and clenching like a fist around his heart. The bond, he soon realized, was beginning to cause him pain, too. 

Half the night passed, Qui-Gon hunched over a desk wedged between two others within the endless halls of the archives. The night sentries stood watch, and still he remained. 

By the first twilight of the morning the Force had revealed to its Jedi Master few ancient texts containing any information whatsoever, and only one solid lead. The Council might never allow him to investigate—but what choice did they have? For one of their own, for Obi-Wan to be made to live in such a condition as this was beyond lacking compassion. To break the bond, not to heal it; that would be Qui-Gon’s sole objective. They must see the necessity in that. 

His bleary eyes were falling shut when a touch to his shoulder roused him, its light simplicity a balm to his enervated spirit. Qui-Gon Jinn lifted himself from his slump, and turned to meet the inquisitive stare of a small Mirialan, her greenish skin vibrant with a blush at awakening the Jedi Master. She, too, must have been a Padawan—she was about Obi-Wan’s maturity—but her own Master was nowhere to be found. An errand, then.

“Master Jinn?” she said, concern glimmering in the sapphire of her eyes. “Master Vokara Che sent me.”

At that he straightened, useless to conceal the anticipation flooding him as if some inner emotional dam had broken. “About Obi-Wan?”

The Mirialan inclined her chin, a little piece of her inky hair falling from beneath the shadows of her veil. “He is alive, but unwell. He has been... asking for you. But Master—”

“Obi-Wan has asked for me?” 

“Yes,” the girl replied, uncertainly. “But Master Che will not permit you in the Halls of Healing.” Suddenly her brow knit and her eyes steeled, as if hardening herself to put forth something impertinent. “Master Jinn, I am a student of Vokara Che. It is her belief as well as mine that the further you and Padawan Kenobi are from one another, the better. It is her recommendation to the Council that you be sent offplanet as soon as it is reasonable to do so.” Once more she tilted her chin, and bowed slightly, but did not make a move to exit.

“You have more to say, Padawan—?”

The Mirialan shook her head, but continued anyway. “Have you sensed it, Master Jinn? A darkness in the Force. I cannot believe it comes from you, but—it must—it must come from somewhere. Find the source of the darkness, and perhaps Obi-Wan stands a chance.”

Qui-Gon was silent for a moment, and then met the young woman’s eyes with a painful earnestness which usually did not affect him so. “It is that bad, then?”

She studied him. “The sooner you are gone, the better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is really slow and kind of moody writing for what should be a super exciting premise, but I don't know how to fix any of that. T_T It doesn't help that this is my least popular fic to date. I'm honestly thinking about taking it down and reworking it some so the chapters are of a more appropriate length, more streamlined, etc. Let me know what y'all think in the comments, please. >-___-<


	7. Origin Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon pleads with the Council, and senses something sinister rising within his old Master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like so long since I've updated... I accidentally wrote a chapter out of order and had to fix it, so there will be another coming soon. Hope you all enjoy!

The origin point of the Jedi, where all bonds between Force-sensitives began. Salvaged, pieced-together texts, thousands, no, tens of thousands of years old spoke of links between physical manifestations of the Force; those elusive ties of life and of the soul. To undo a bond which fate itself has tied together, a journey must be undertaken to the place where fate itself might fall apart. The Force is not rooted in physical beings, only expressed there; that is what the mystics of ancient times believed. To excise such an expression, to unravel from the base of being, one must find its source. 

That is why Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn stood before the Council, beseeching them to allow him to travel to the ancient Je’daii planetary system of Tython. 

“No,” Mace Windu said outright, from the beginning, his flat tone leaving no room for argument. 

But Qui-Gon possessed the rare ability to, despite his large and daunting physique, gracefully insert himself into any and all slivers of non-space in conversation—especially when the participants involved did not want him there. 

“You would allow Obi-Wan to suffer whenever he comes within a klick of me? Whenever we both occupy the Temple? Even now, he lies in the Halls of Healing, tormented by this bond.” Qui-Gon’s voice deepened with a tinge of finality. “I will dissolve it.” 

“Dangerous, this mission is, Qui-Gon,” Yoda whispered, inflection made foreboding in the nascent twilight of the Council Chamber which would soon bloom into thin rays of cloudless morning. “Solve this problem, you may not. Create others, you might. Your chances of success, slim, they are. Your chances of survival, slimmer, they may be.”

Qui-Gon lifted his chin, folding his robes back in grim determination. “If I succeed, and the bond is broken, Obi-Wan will be able to continue his life as a Jedi in relative peace. On the other hand: If I die, he will still be free of me.”

“Peaceful, a Jedi’s life rarely is. Too valuable a Jedi you are, Qui-Gon, to sacrifice yourself for this Padawan’s sake.”

Anger building beneath his ribs, Qui-Gon found himself throwing back his cloak to set his hands on his hips, as was his way when riled. “Obi-Wan will become a better Jedi than I could ever hope to be. Of this I am certain. But he cannot do it if my mere presence tortures him.” His expression grew stony at the thought of his former Padawan, languishing in the Halls of Healing, unable to be soothed or aided by anything in possession of the Jedi, enduring the unbearable pull of the bond that tightened across Qui-Gon’s presence even here, even now. He glanced around at the expressions set intent upon him, and addressed the entire Council: “If I am to face consequences for my actions, then so be it. I will go to Tython; and if I do not find the answers I seek, I will search the galaxy until I have.”

Murmurs. Hardly did anyone dare to defy the Council so openly—but Qui-Gon Jinn was hardly anyone when it came to the Jedi, or authority of any kind. Some considered him wayward, stubborn; others knew him to be brave.

Yoda rapped his gimer stick twice on the floor, drawing the Council from their shared deliberations and muttered criticisms, tutting gently as he did so. “Such determination, Master Qui-Gon, hmm? Care so much for this third Padawan of yours, do you? Go to the ends of the galaxy you would, for him, hmm?”

Qui-Gon could do nothing but lower his arms to his sides, looking pained, looking exposed, and slowly nod. “Yes.” He cast his eyes toward Master Windu’s boots, and said in utter contradiction of the Code, “I would.”

“Attachment is forbidden,” Mace reminded him, tone enunciated, deliberate. 

“Is not Master Jinn journeying to rid himself of that same attachment, Master Windu?” Depa Billaba pointed out with an upward glance at Qui-Gon before turning toward her counterpart. “Is this not what the Jedi do? Give ourselves in service, our very lives, so that others may prosper?”

“The Jedi serve the good of the many; never one above the rest,” Windu said. “This mission takes too many unnecessary risks, with too little promise of reward. We should be focusing on entire systems that need our help, not sending one of our best on a wild bantha chase.”

“Masters, if I may,” the mild lilt of Ki-Adi Mundi’s accent floated up from his armchair. “Despite the shortcomings of both Master and apprentice, Jinn and Kenobi are our own.”

“I sense... great suffering to come,” Jocasta Nu spoke slowly, drawing the attention of the Masters. Rarely did she speak her mind, but when she did, often were her predilections correct. The opinion of one of such knowledge as she was held in high esteem by all members of the Council; they could not ignore her. 

After a tense moment, to even more surprise, she spoke again. “There is a larger design to all of this, clouded by the dark side. It is but one line in a history. This chapter must be revealed.”

“Wary, we must be, of the dark,” Yoda said, heavy-lidded eyes half-closed in contemplation. “A dangerous path, this is. Clear, the solution is not, Qui-Gon. Prepared, are you, to face this suffering?”

“I am,” Qui-Gon replied simply. 

Suddenly his old Master drew his attention, a quiet shift in the bond which so long ago he believed severed; Dooku had not spoken the entire meeting, but kept his eyes upon his Padawan, hoping for an outcome which Qui-Gon could not divine. Jedi did not require anticipation to guide them through events; they used the Force for that purpose. Yet he sensed anticipation in the depths of Dooku’s presence—as if—as if— 

“Then go you must,” Yoda finished, and though no change in his Master’s mien alerted Qui-Gon to his thoughts, a soft warmth filled him, incomprehensible yet meaningful in some opaque way. “But give your life, you must not! Remember the Code, you should, and live by it. Sacrifice yourself for this boy, do  _ not.” _

“I will do as you ask.”

With one final glance at Dooku, Qui-Gon Jinn bowed his head and departed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the next chapter is ALSO about the Jedi Council.... I know they're boring and pedantic but I just love to watch Qui and Obi rail against 'em and cause angst. (It's my innate problem with authority, sorry/not sorry!)


	8. Assignment

Obi-Wan stood, once again, before the Council, this time with a greater deal of mistrust than he’d thought possible for a Jedi of the Order, even a Padawan learner such as he. Perhaps this was a test of his faith in authority. That, too, had been shaken as of late. 

Once Qui-Gon Jinn had been sent on his mission elsewhere—to atone, the Masters let him know, no more, no less, no different—his jilted apprentice recovered steadily over the course of a few rotations. The bond no longer pained him physically, though its presence lingered like a cancer sent into reluctant remission. It clung hard in the recesses of his aura, dwindling in the space between shadow and light, felt but unseen. 

Before his recovery, utilizing neither input nor wishes of the young man whose very life seemed to be at stake, the Council decided the fate of one Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi. He knew it before the sentries allowed him into the chamber, could sense it from the Halls of Healing and beyond, that they had hardened themselves toward him. That whatever deliberations the Council allowed were at the behest of his Master, no one else, and whatever decision they came to would always land in favor of he who had the most power. That they had chosen to believe the Jedi Master Count of Serenno over a backwater Stewjoni Padawan of nowhere. But, really, bitterness could not serve him here, and nor would false complaints; only acceptance of the truth. That is what the Council would say.

The problem was, Obi-Wan could not recognize his own fragmented truth anymore. Though he fought for the memories, the truth, the totality of the occurrence evaded him as though sliced out. So he accepted their interpretation, their blame, against himself with resignation.

“Acknowledged, your complaint against Master Dooku has been, Padawan,” Yoda nodded serenely, decisively, though it came through to him as muddled as the swirling eddies of muck stirred up at the bottom of a lake. Waking hours pained him, his existence a haze of exhaustion. It might have been too early for his sanity to face the Council, if he had not been so anxious to get out of Dooku’s charge. 

“Thank you, Master Yoda.” It was all he could think to say in the silence which followed. “And my assignment?”

The Masters of the Council glanced at one another as if regretful. But they weren’t. They could never be—it was not their nature to look backward upon decisions with a tinge of anything except moral rectitude. Their verdict would be as final as it was cruel.

“Tested, you will be,” the wizened voice returned him. “Settle a dispute between worlds in the Inner Rim, you must. Require much discipline, it will, and patience. Help resolve the disagreement between you and your new Master, it might. Or break you apart forever, it could.”

Obi-Wan remembered precious few details of his alleged disagreement, and wanted to recall less. The lightning-strikes of recollection punctuated the storm within his memory, moments of bare surrender to the Force and to his Master, all the while denouncing his compliance as something undignified; degrading. The thought of a mission that might take months with his new Master—Dooku, clawing into those formless and tender parts of him with as much intent as a sarlacc in its hunger—ravenous—devouring— 

He couldn’t protest. He could do nothing but accept the task at hand with as much dignity as he could muster. The anger, the outrage, the taint of his heart at being charged with such an assignment, he would have to leave behind. Fear would do him no favors. 

So he bowed, and folded his robes, and beneath them the chill of unacknowledged dread sank between his ribs like daggers and twisted. But all he sensed was the familiar Coruscanti cold of the upper levels, and the slight tremble in his hands concealed well enough beneath a cloak that Obi-Wan could will himself to believe he did not notice. With Qui-Gon as his teacher, he had mastered the Force so splendidly as a boy, giving himself over to it wholly, until nothing besides remained but its glittering power, its hundredfold will. When had the light of the living Force abandoned him? When had he lost himself? When had the vastness of his being been reduced to shaking hands and eyes filled with heat? He did not know. He knew nothing.

Mace Windu spoke next, though he barely heard. “If by the end of this assignment, you still feel the differences between yourself and Master Dooku are irreconcilable, we will not hesitate to allow you to transfer. But be wary, Padawan. Many Masters are not looking to finish an older apprentice’s twice-neglected training. If you relinquish your current position, the Council cannot guarantee you will find another.”

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said automatically. The will of the Force hummed inside his chest, twisting his windpipe into hard knots he couldn’t swallow past.  _ The will of the Force: _ neither light, nor dark, only determined in its impassive way to use him, to thread him into its story despite all his frays. Of one thing he was almost certain: This mission would finish him. 

Assuming Dooku didn’t finish him first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, Obi-Wan. The Council just doesn’t realize what they’re doing to you, I’m afraid.


	9. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan reflects on his new place in the galaxy as Dooku's Padawan.

On a long-ago mission with Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan once encountered a peculiar species whose custom dictated that high-ranking political figures hired no servants and used no droids in the course of holding events or negotiations with foreigners such as Jedi. Instead, the prime minister of the planet insisted the pair dine with his family before beginning to settle terms for Republic use of newly discovered hyperspace lanes within the planetary system, which lay on the inner edge of the Outer Rim, at the border of Republic space. Perhaps the prime minister had misapprehended the purpose of an apprentice of the Jedi, or perhaps he cared not for the presence of a teenager in negotiations, but—when the time came for his sons to clear the table, as their customs also dictated, the man ordered Obi-Wan brusquely along to help them. 

One surprised glance later, not entirely free of offense at the head of the household’s curt suggestion, and Qui-Gon’s Padawan realized he would take no part in official negotiations until he had washed the dishes as commanded. Humility was the way of the Jedi, after all, his Master strung through the bond; but Obi-Wan was already off contemplating whether he could possibly scrub plates faster with use of the Force, and why he had to do it, and why the prime minister of an entire planetary system couldn’t possibly make use of a servant droid instead of his own sons and the apprentice of a stranger. 

He ran the soft sponge over the concavities of the dishes, ignoring the complaints of the young brothers at being left out of adult business to execute menial tasks, and lost himself in thought, in meditation, bridging together his past and his future and all the depths of himself into the Force, where Obi-Wan Kenobi no longer existed, where time no longer existed, and he could breathe out light and life and focus on non-transient things. The sponge for example: the dirtiest, most bacteria-ridden of household items, as he had discovered in a particularly interminable session of a practical skills class as an initiate—yet still so efficient in making other items clean. Or the dishes: able to hold but never to become, prized for their usefulness as vessels yet pointless when empty, blank and drab without the life-giving sustenance within. 

Currently, as Obi-Wan’s Master carved a dizzying path of circles around his standing form, his head bowed, hands folded within his robes, deferring, making himself small—he wrapped himself in the meditation, the thoughts from so long ago which met him even here, in the place where time ceased to be. Obi-Wan Kenobi knew his purpose now. Sponging up the dark, soaking it in, he must allow it to infect him yet never to subdue him. His purpose was to leave others in the light, even if he choked on the rot of his own soul. 

This he could live with. 

Dooku made a final circuit, pausing behind him and reaching out slow tendrils of the Force, seeing, waiting, testing if his Padawan would turn. The accommodations on this planet had been rather luxurious; Obi-Wan’s bare feet rested on a patterned carpet softer than shimmersilk in the middle of a large, recessed living area between the equally luxurious bedrooms of Master and apprentice. Every space sang with warm energy, the place lit by candledroids which hummed and strolled about idly in programmed rounds. Only Dooku filled the atmosphere with ice, his expression oftentimes alight with cold chastisement aimed toward some perceived foible of his apprentice. 

Qui-Gon Jinn had been soft for him, but Dooku had no such weaknesses. 

When his Master rested a hand on his tense shoulder, Obi-Wan redirected the flinch of his muscle into a slight twitching of his fingertips and no more. Still he did not move, did not turn, only stood deadly still as if Dooku’s subzero pall had frozen him to the spot. 

“You have improved,” his Master said in that low-booming way which could be so unsettling when he meant it to. “The bond no longer pains you?”

“Sometimes, Master,” Obi-Wan returned him, eyes closed, focusing on the lilt of his voice and his presence in the Force to guide his responses. Trying and failing to tamp down his curiosity, he added: “I have improved?”

“Certainly, my boy,” Dooku said, digging fingers into his shoulder in a way that might be considered congenial if it didn’t—if it didn’t feel like—

Obi-Wan breathed, centered himself, and allowed his Master to press past his defenses, to show him that which he wanted no one to see. 

“Do you remember now?” his Master pressed, but behind his eyelids nothing moved but blackness and bleakness. No memory stirred. All was void. 

Did Qui-Gon Jinn do this to him? Did he put the darkness there? Is that what Dooku wanted him to believe?

Could it be true?

Opening his eyes to the rug beneath him, scarlet swirls and geometric patterns of cobalt blue and sandy tan, Obi-Wan steadied himself from swaying and widened his stance in slight movements. “No, Master Dooku, nothing,” he said, but the words sounded strained and far from him, like a blaster-bolt through water, a lightsaber slash through fog. 

“You will,” Dooku said, “in time.”

“What is it I’m supposed to be remembering, Master?” 

The Jedi removed his hand, but the atmosphere about them only thickened into a bleak haze, an encompassing opaqueness through which his Padawan could neither sense the slight wavering of his thoughts nor anticipate his actions as a consequence. All at once Dooku invaded him, Force-presence shattering through like a thousand little dagger-points upon his shields. 

Obi-Wan made to turn and face his Master, but found for the first time his instincts screaming out stillness, inaction as a form of escape. Dooku grinned intangibly, somewhere deep within him, the inside of his skull tingling with dizzy pallor and the weight of being cleansed, he knew, of evil. Of the evil dark that clouds clear judgment, knowledge... memory. These things he would regain. 

“Go to bed,” Dooku said softly from behind him, not ungently. “We have much to attend to at sunrise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing scenes out of order again, so the next update may take some time. Please be warned: it will get darker from here.


End file.
